My son recently had to give a speech at his graduation. He was the salutatorian (I had to look it up), and so was asked to inspire his fellow graduates and their families with erudite, pithy, and amusing words of wisdom.
He is 10. And while I am a firm believer in allowing kids to do their own work and make their own mistakes, I couldn't let the lad fail in front of 500 people. So I became, for two brief weeks, a stage mom.
We brainstormed ideas for his speech. ("You need one idea. No rambling nonsense. If you tell them more than one thing, you've told them too much.")
He wrote it, and I reviewed it. Ruthlessly. ("Where's the structure? It's all about structure. Repetition and structure.")
And then we rehearsed. And rehearsed. And rehearsed again.
I had the poor fellow recite it in the kitchen. ("Slow down.") On the stairs looking down at a family audience of 3 people and 2 cats. ("Slower.") With his notes. ("Pause between each sentence.") Without his notes. ("You need to know this inside and out so you can think on your feet.")
I was unbearable. Because I do this a lot. And I know that you had better be prepared, because things don't always go according to plan.
Just yesterday, we had a presentation at work. There were 30 people squeezed into a conference room that bulges at the seams with 20. My jacket was tight. It was hot. I was thirsty. I stood up to present, and realized to my horror that I was quite unable to draw a breath. I gasped. I spluttered a sentence. I sipped some water. I took a shallow breath, in order not to burst the buttons on my jacket, and spluttered some more. It was the most uncomfortable presentation experience of my life.
Afterwards, a colleague mentioned that she liked the way I took my time, and drew deep, thoughtful breaths between each point. I disabused her of this notion, and explained that I was in fact hyperventilating, and had almost died for want of a paper bag to breathe into.
"Oh," she replied. "I thought you were doing it for emotional effect."
At least they didn't see the whites of my eyes.
On graduation day, my son was spiffy and smart in his new suit and shiny shoes. He climbed up to the podium, where he had to stand on a stool so he could see over the top. He looked around calmly (just like mummy told him to), smiled (ditto), and took a deep breath (ditto, although he was in no danger of losing his buttons). Then he began...
He did a lovely, lovely job. I commented that he looked so comfortable up there, as if he presented to 500 people on a regular basis.
"Were you nervous?"
"Yes. My trousers were shaking."
Bless his heart.
I was so proud. Because even with shaking trousers, he didn't let us see the whites of his eyes.
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
Face your fears
I have always tried to raise brave young men.
You cut your knee honey? You’ll live. Spilt your milk? Get over it. Afraid you’ll fail? Failure lies in not trying.
I want them to have perspective on their woes, and courage in the face of adversity.
Of course, this requires me to lead by example. If I want them to face their fears, I have to face mine. Which is how I found myself in a mask and flippers, hyperventilating my way through a dark underground river in Mexico a few weeks ago.
My husband had already faced his fears on the trip. God bless him, he rappelled off an 85-foot platform in the rainforest. This is the man who cannot stand on a ladder without having a turn. He has many great strengths, but a head for heights is not one of them.
So when the boys thought it would be fun to swim through a cave, along a mile-long underground river, I felt forced to acquiesce.
I should point out here that I am not OK with fish. I have worked hard to overcome this phobia, and have made great strides. Bright tropical water with colorful Finding Nemo-type fish 10 feet below me I can do. Brown murky water with brown murky fish 10 inches from my face I cannot.
However, I was determined to set a good example. I snapped on my mask, donned my flippers, and kicked off in a nonchalant fashion. Fifty feet in, I put my head underwater, and immediately came back up, choking in horror. I was surrounded by catfish. And thousands upon thousands of teeny tiny black sprats.
I clutched Mr Berman’s arm.
"I can't do it."
"Just keep moving"
"There are fish. They're all over me."
"Of course there are fish. It's a bloody river."
I paddled on in a panicky fashion, looking for a suitable exit point. Eventually I spotted a pinpoint of light in the distance, so I dragged myself onto the rocky bank, divested myself of flippers, and started to scale a trail leading upwards, checking my bathing suit obsessively for tiny black sprats.
I emerged, blinking, into the light, and forged a path towards what I hoped would be the cave exit. After a few hundred yards, a sharp piece of gravel embedded itself in my foot. I swore heartily, and stepped back into the only footwear I had available.
I waddled on in my mask and flippers, groping about in my bikini bottoms, in what I knew would become a lifelong search for leftover sprats. A group of passing travelers stared at me in disbelief. I smiled faintly and waved (with the hand that wasn't down my bikini), only to trip over a flipper.
I staggered to my feet shouting "Backwards! I forgot to walk backwards! You should always walk backwards in flippers!" The passing travelers moved on quickly.
Heeding my own advice, I walked the remaining half mile backwards, bleeding profusely from my left knee, swearing loudly as I fumbled for sprats.
"Where the hell have you been?" yelled Mr Berman. 'We were worried."
"I faced my fears and I don't like them." I yelled back. "That's why they're called fears. I want a margarita."
Not exactly the lesson I had intended to impart, but a valuable one, nevertheless.
When courage fails, there is always tequila.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Karate smackdown
Last Sunday, I got up at 6am and drove my son 30 miles to watch him fight another child in front of approximately 400 people.
It was his first karate tournament.
And mine.
We were, of course, late, my GPS losing its mind somewhere in the middle of Long Island. We arrived at a gallop, sweating and swearing as usual, and found ourselves in a scene straight from Dante. There were 8 combat rings. Masses of competitors. And hundreds of parents lining the hall, seated on bleachers, hollering up a storm.
I pointed my tiny little baby (OK, OK, quite tough 8-year old) in the direction of his ring, and climbed on shaky legs to the top of the bleachers.
I managed to remain tolerably calm, until the first punch was thrown.
It took every ounce of self-control I possess not to throw myself into the ring, grab the other kid by the pants and hurl him to the mat in an unexpected Mama B Smackdown.
Instead I took a breath.
My son goes to a great karate school, run by wonderful people, who place a real emphasis on encouraging positive character development. He has to complete homework assignments about confidence, perseverence, self-control. He is fit and strong. He is not afraid. And, best of all, he gets to do really cool-looking karate moves that he practices day after day.
So I sat on my hands. Shut my mouth. And tried really, really hard not to pee my pants.
He did rather well. As he proudly clutched his trophy, he explained his strategy for success. He noticed that the other kid didn't have on a face guard, just a head guard, so he aimed straight for the nose.
It was his first karate tournament.
And mine.
We were, of course, late, my GPS losing its mind somewhere in the middle of Long Island. We arrived at a gallop, sweating and swearing as usual, and found ourselves in a scene straight from Dante. There were 8 combat rings. Masses of competitors. And hundreds of parents lining the hall, seated on bleachers, hollering up a storm.
I pointed my tiny little baby (OK, OK, quite tough 8-year old) in the direction of his ring, and climbed on shaky legs to the top of the bleachers.
I managed to remain tolerably calm, until the first punch was thrown.
It took every ounce of self-control I possess not to throw myself into the ring, grab the other kid by the pants and hurl him to the mat in an unexpected Mama B Smackdown.
Instead I took a breath.
My son goes to a great karate school, run by wonderful people, who place a real emphasis on encouraging positive character development. He has to complete homework assignments about confidence, perseverence, self-control. He is fit and strong. He is not afraid. And, best of all, he gets to do really cool-looking karate moves that he practices day after day.
So I sat on my hands. Shut my mouth. And tried really, really hard not to pee my pants.
He did rather well. As he proudly clutched his trophy, he explained his strategy for success. He noticed that the other kid didn't have on a face guard, just a head guard, so he aimed straight for the nose.
"Marvellous!" I heard myself saying. "Smart move! Next time, make sure you follow through with an axe kick to the chest."
This is his sport, and he loves it.
And while I haven't quite got the hollering bit down yet, I will be there on the bleachers, cheering him on.
P.S. For karate classes in Brooklyn, check out urbandojo.com
P.S. For karate classes in Brooklyn, check out urbandojo.com
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Black rat
A black rat crossed my path on the subway stairs yesterday.
It was of substantial size and menacing demeanor, but what freaked me out the most, apart from the fact that I nearly trod on it, was the fact that it reminded me of a mouse.
Strange thing to say I suppose -- of course rats resemble mice. But rats I can deal with. Naturally, I would experience fear and alarm if I found one in my kitchen. But I would be able to think clearly and form a plan. Mice, on the other hand, drive dark and clammy fear into the depths of my soul. I cannot think, I cannot function, I cannot breathe.
After my close encounter with the rat, all I have been able to think about is the mouse we had in the bedroom a few years back.
It made its first appearance in the dead of night. I was awoken by Mr Berman, stumbling around with the light on.
"What the hell is going on?"
"Nothing. It's nothing. Go back to sleep."
"It's not nothing. What is it?"
"It's a... cockroach-type thing."
"What kind of cockroach-type thing."
"Erm...one with a tail."
"It's a MOUSE?"
For the next 5 minutes, I stood on the bed screaming until Mr Berman manhandled me into the guest room and told me in no uncertain terms to keep the hysterics to a minimum while he dealt with it.
I did not sleep a wink.
The next morning, I was forced to ask our babysitter to help me retrieve clean knickers from the bedroom. Just as I was reaching into the drawer, I saw a dark shape run behind the dresser. I literally leapt onto the light fixture. When our babysitter eventually managed to get me down, my hair was standing on end, I had goosebumps on every inch of my body, and was sweating like a woman possessed.
I didn't sleep a wink that night either. Nor the next. Nor the one after that.
Because we could not find the mouse. Until I could discover evidence of its demise, or its continued existence, I was a tormented soul. I spent all day at work researching humane traps, peanut butter bait, and peppermint oil deterrents. When I arrived home, I would feverishly search for droppings, then throw the boys in the car and drive around the block until Mr Berman got home from work.
Eventually we found it, by smell. It had crawled into Mr Berman's gym bag, and expired in his sneaker.
We were recently recounting this episode when Mr Berman surprised me -- nay, horrified me -- with a confession. He had hidden the full story, knowing it would send me straight into an asylum.
He had been half-woken up by the cat jumping on the bed, and something crawling into the palm of his hand. He squeezed his hand together, and realized the "something" felt unpleasantly greasy. At this point, he sat bolt upright, flicked on the light, and saw a mouse, in his palm, apparently squeezed to death.
At this point, Mr Berman panicked. In his defense, he is not at his best when roused from a deep slumber. And he was more than a little unnerved by his greasy palm and the contents therein.
So while he considered what to do about the situation, he put the mouse down -- ON THE BED -- and went to wash his hands. When he returned, the mouse had come to its senses and was staggering across the bed in my direction. It was mere inches from my face, but it saw Mr Berman and fortuitously performed an unexpectedly athletic leap onto the floor.
This is the point at which I woke up.
What if I had woken 5 seconds earlier? What if the mouse had chosen my hand to crawl into? Or my nostril, god forbid. I swear the shock would have killed me.
So you can see why I was distressed by the rat.
I have started to obsess again over its smaller cousin. Am I going to lose all ability to function until every rodent is expunged from New York City? This could mean a long stay in Bellevue.
It was of substantial size and menacing demeanor, but what freaked me out the most, apart from the fact that I nearly trod on it, was the fact that it reminded me of a mouse.
Strange thing to say I suppose -- of course rats resemble mice. But rats I can deal with. Naturally, I would experience fear and alarm if I found one in my kitchen. But I would be able to think clearly and form a plan. Mice, on the other hand, drive dark and clammy fear into the depths of my soul. I cannot think, I cannot function, I cannot breathe.
After my close encounter with the rat, all I have been able to think about is the mouse we had in the bedroom a few years back.
It made its first appearance in the dead of night. I was awoken by Mr Berman, stumbling around with the light on.
"What the hell is going on?"
"Nothing. It's nothing. Go back to sleep."
"It's not nothing. What is it?"
"It's a... cockroach-type thing."
"What kind of cockroach-type thing."
"Erm...one with a tail."
"It's a MOUSE?"
For the next 5 minutes, I stood on the bed screaming until Mr Berman manhandled me into the guest room and told me in no uncertain terms to keep the hysterics to a minimum while he dealt with it.
I did not sleep a wink.
The next morning, I was forced to ask our babysitter to help me retrieve clean knickers from the bedroom. Just as I was reaching into the drawer, I saw a dark shape run behind the dresser. I literally leapt onto the light fixture. When our babysitter eventually managed to get me down, my hair was standing on end, I had goosebumps on every inch of my body, and was sweating like a woman possessed.
I didn't sleep a wink that night either. Nor the next. Nor the one after that.
Because we could not find the mouse. Until I could discover evidence of its demise, or its continued existence, I was a tormented soul. I spent all day at work researching humane traps, peanut butter bait, and peppermint oil deterrents. When I arrived home, I would feverishly search for droppings, then throw the boys in the car and drive around the block until Mr Berman got home from work.
Eventually we found it, by smell. It had crawled into Mr Berman's gym bag, and expired in his sneaker.
We were recently recounting this episode when Mr Berman surprised me -- nay, horrified me -- with a confession. He had hidden the full story, knowing it would send me straight into an asylum.
He had been half-woken up by the cat jumping on the bed, and something crawling into the palm of his hand. He squeezed his hand together, and realized the "something" felt unpleasantly greasy. At this point, he sat bolt upright, flicked on the light, and saw a mouse, in his palm, apparently squeezed to death.
At this point, Mr Berman panicked. In his defense, he is not at his best when roused from a deep slumber. And he was more than a little unnerved by his greasy palm and the contents therein.
So while he considered what to do about the situation, he put the mouse down -- ON THE BED -- and went to wash his hands. When he returned, the mouse had come to its senses and was staggering across the bed in my direction. It was mere inches from my face, but it saw Mr Berman and fortuitously performed an unexpectedly athletic leap onto the floor.
This is the point at which I woke up.
What if I had woken 5 seconds earlier? What if the mouse had chosen my hand to crawl into? Or my nostril, god forbid. I swear the shock would have killed me.
So you can see why I was distressed by the rat.
I have started to obsess again over its smaller cousin. Am I going to lose all ability to function until every rodent is expunged from New York City? This could mean a long stay in Bellevue.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Bear attack
I have been hanging by the phone, waiting for my son to call.
He is away from home for the first time, at an outdoor adventure center in the Poconos. I had the usual low-grade anxiety such an event might occasion (Will he clean his teeth? Wake up in the night? Change his socks?) but there was no real fear involved.
Until I spoke to Thaddeus.
Thaddeus is a colleague of mine. I mentioned my son's trip to him. He looked at me, shock in his eyes, hesitated for a moment, and then started laughing.
Fear was now very much involved.
Thaddeus began his tale.
"I went on one of those trips. Bears attacked the camp. Went for a pee in the woods, turned around and there's a bear, staring me straight in the eye. We all had to run for it. Tore my pants in the panic. Berman, there are TONS of black bears upstate."
My stomach acid lurched into immediate overdrive. But Thaddeus wasn't finished.
"Best thing was, all the girls were so frightened, they were allowed to sleep in the guys tents that night..."
At this point I almost vomited. My son is 10. If the bears don't get him, the girls will.
Since this worrisome download, I have been sitting by the phone waiting for a call. Preferably from my son, but most likely from the police or the principal.
Eventually it rang.
"Hello mummy."
"Hello love! I was hoping it was you! Are you alive? I mean, having fun?"
"Yeah."
"Is the food OK?"
"Yeah."
"Are staying within sight of a teacher, a parent chaperone, and an armed forest ranger at all times?"
"Er, yeah."
"And you're definitely still alive?"
"Yeah."
I let it go.
There will be bears. There will be girls. There will be many other things to turn my hair white and put holes in my stomach lining. I may not be ready for them. But he will be.
Still, there will be no peeing in the forest. Ever. That's just asking for it.
He is away from home for the first time, at an outdoor adventure center in the Poconos. I had the usual low-grade anxiety such an event might occasion (Will he clean his teeth? Wake up in the night? Change his socks?) but there was no real fear involved.
Until I spoke to Thaddeus.
Thaddeus is a colleague of mine. I mentioned my son's trip to him. He looked at me, shock in his eyes, hesitated for a moment, and then started laughing.
Fear was now very much involved.
Thaddeus began his tale.
"I went on one of those trips. Bears attacked the camp. Went for a pee in the woods, turned around and there's a bear, staring me straight in the eye. We all had to run for it. Tore my pants in the panic. Berman, there are TONS of black bears upstate."
My stomach acid lurched into immediate overdrive. But Thaddeus wasn't finished.
"Best thing was, all the girls were so frightened, they were allowed to sleep in the guys tents that night..."
At this point I almost vomited. My son is 10. If the bears don't get him, the girls will.
Since this worrisome download, I have been sitting by the phone waiting for a call. Preferably from my son, but most likely from the police or the principal.
Eventually it rang.
"Hello mummy."
"Hello love! I was hoping it was you! Are you alive? I mean, having fun?"
"Yeah."
"Is the food OK?"
"Yeah."
"Are staying within sight of a teacher, a parent chaperone, and an armed forest ranger at all times?"
"Er, yeah."
"And you're definitely still alive?"
"Yeah."
I let it go.
There will be bears. There will be girls. There will be many other things to turn my hair white and put holes in my stomach lining. I may not be ready for them. But he will be.
Still, there will be no peeing in the forest. Ever. That's just asking for it.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Paranoid
I love to ski. I didn't learn until my twenties, so I go about it with the zeal of a born-again convert.
This explains why, at 5:45 am this morning, I was rousing my boys for a 15-hour odyssey from Brooklyn to Aspen, via Newark, Kansas City, and Denver.
Yes, we could have flown a little more directly. But Mr Berman was not able to join us, and I felt guilty spending more than was strictly necessary on a vacation without him.
So I found myself at Denver airport this afternoon, embarking on what I had convinced myself was an easy, breezy 150-mile jaunt through the mountains. Turns out my memory had failed me, and it was a 200-mile twisty, turny, plunge-to-your-death-in-a-blizzard kind of drive; just the kind of thing you need to ease you into a relaxing vacation.
Apparently they have had a lot of snow this year. So I was persuaded to upgrade to a larger SUV, the size of a school bus, which would 'sit me higher above the road'. I have driven this route many times, but was never seated quite high enough to appreciate that at any given moment, I was in danger of driving off a precipice. It did not improve my enjoyment.
The kids had a fine old time, playing Zombie Smash in the back seat, and exploring the decibel capacity of the rental-bus stereo. With no intention of irony, they played Black Sabbath's 'Paranoid' repeatedly, as I white-knuckled my way through the foothills of the Rockies.
There was a particularly interesting spell near Vail, when a fast, hard blizzard moved in, just as a truck driver decided not to let me pass. Icy glares were exchanged on icier roads. He'd evidently been watching reruns of Duel.
I water-planed across the road near Snowmass, towards a ravine in the dark. I asked my kids 5 minutes later -- as soon as I managed to unclench my teeth -- whether they had noticed anything. They had. Apparently I had used words that are not OK.
But we are here. I managed to prise my hands off the steering wheel, since when they have been firmly clutching a glass of cab. The boys were fabulous company, and I am looking forward to wrestling them into their ski gear at 6:30 am tomorrow. May need another glass of cab at that point; not sure tea will hit the spot.
This explains why, at 5:45 am this morning, I was rousing my boys for a 15-hour odyssey from Brooklyn to Aspen, via Newark, Kansas City, and Denver.
Yes, we could have flown a little more directly. But Mr Berman was not able to join us, and I felt guilty spending more than was strictly necessary on a vacation without him.
So I found myself at Denver airport this afternoon, embarking on what I had convinced myself was an easy, breezy 150-mile jaunt through the mountains. Turns out my memory had failed me, and it was a 200-mile twisty, turny, plunge-to-your-death-in-a-blizzard kind of drive; just the kind of thing you need to ease you into a relaxing vacation.
Apparently they have had a lot of snow this year. So I was persuaded to upgrade to a larger SUV, the size of a school bus, which would 'sit me higher above the road'. I have driven this route many times, but was never seated quite high enough to appreciate that at any given moment, I was in danger of driving off a precipice. It did not improve my enjoyment.
The kids had a fine old time, playing Zombie Smash in the back seat, and exploring the decibel capacity of the rental-bus stereo. With no intention of irony, they played Black Sabbath's 'Paranoid' repeatedly, as I white-knuckled my way through the foothills of the Rockies.
There was a particularly interesting spell near Vail, when a fast, hard blizzard moved in, just as a truck driver decided not to let me pass. Icy glares were exchanged on icier roads. He'd evidently been watching reruns of Duel.
I water-planed across the road near Snowmass, towards a ravine in the dark. I asked my kids 5 minutes later -- as soon as I managed to unclench my teeth -- whether they had noticed anything. They had. Apparently I had used words that are not OK.
But we are here. I managed to prise my hands off the steering wheel, since when they have been firmly clutching a glass of cab. The boys were fabulous company, and I am looking forward to wrestling them into their ski gear at 6:30 am tomorrow. May need another glass of cab at that point; not sure tea will hit the spot.
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